


Posthumous

by Alliterative_Albatross



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Dewey has a solo adventure, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Father Figures, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Dewey, Minor Injuries, Parent-Child Relationship, Presumed Dead, and huey has more to say, because this is going to be a ride, good dad donald, hold on to your spats, louie has a secret, scrooge mcduck needs a hug, team uncle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-22 01:54:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16588523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliterative_Albatross/pseuds/Alliterative_Albatross
Summary: Scrooge thought that losing Della taught him everything he needed to know about loss. But the universe is rarely so kind, and grief is not finished with Scrooge McDuck.Scrooge just wishes he'd learned his lesson sooner.





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Oi, Scrooge!” Flintheart Glomgold’s counterfeit Scottish brogue echoes across the cavern.

  
Scrooge freezes, tapping his cane on the stone floor in annoyance “Cannae have one simple family vacation in the tropics without someone getting lost, kidnapped, or god forbid, shot at. If that’s not enough, well, now we’re being followed,” he mutters to Louie, who is standing stalk still with his hand on Scrooge’s sleeve.

  
“Nice family vacation,” Louie snarks back from the protective cover of his huge green hoodie. “I thought you were taking us to the beach.”

  
“And I will, Angles, stop your haverin’. It’s rude to ignore the company.” Scrooge brushes Louie aside, missing the way his nephew’s face tightens in fear at the sight of Flintheart Glomgold, who is standing above them near a steep cliff that overhangs the underground river.

  
Scrooge tips his hat. “Flinty,” he greets, tone dropping into a warning. “What are you doing here?” Scrooge’s eyes sweep the cavern, counting ducklings.

  
One, two, and… there, three. All accounted for.

  
He allows himself to smile as Flintheart stretches into his full stature. “I am here for the Sapphire of Souls!” he announces, arms thrown wide, eyes gleaming.

  
Scrooge rests his hands on his knees and laughs. “Sapphire of Souls, really?” he asks, brushing tears from his eyes and shooting a quick glance to his team to see that they follow his lead. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, Flinty, but there’s no sapphire-searching happening here. Just a simple beach vacation.”

  
“Is that right?” Flinty narrows his eyes. “Strange way to take a beach vacation, McDuck, by suiting up all of your kids to go spelunking in an underwater labyrinth of volcanic shafts in the middle of the night.”

  
“Oh, but Mars is in retrograde, Mr. Glomgold! And the Sun is moving into Aquarius!”

  
Webby.

  
Scrooge makes a sudden move to get the girl to shut her mouth, but she’s too quick for him. “Between that the shifts in wind patterns affecting the coriolis current, the local sea levels have fallen just enough to allow access to the underground caverns - mmmmmph.”

  
Scrooge has finally got a hand over her mouth. “This one,” he shakes his head in put-on pity and offers the universal sign for loco. “Loves her astrology. Cannae get her on anything else, the poor dear.”

  
Webby’s eyes, when they meet his, are apologetic and ashamed. Scrooge feels a little sick over his words. He’ll have to bring Webby into his office for tea and explain that he hadn’t really meant them.

  
“Enough,” Glomgold roars. “You will give me the sapphire, McDuck. I guarantee it,"

  
Scrooge sighs and reminds himself that a Scotsman must never roll his eyes at the mentally impaired. “And why should I do that, Flinty?”

  
Above him, Glomgold’s face gleams with something like genuine malice. But Scrooge doesn’t have time to process the threat before Glomgold is reaching for a tall, oddly shaped rock behind him.

  
“Lad!”

  
The word escapes Scrooge without thought.

  
Dewey is bound and gagged. A smear of bright red blood trickles from a small cut on his cheek. Otherwise, he appears uninjured, and his eyes smoldering with a rage that would have put Uncle Donald to shame.

  
Scrooge freezes, carefully reigning in the anger that threatens to bubble up in his chest. He’d told Dewey, specifically and sternly, to stay where he could be seen.  
Of course, Dewey had wandered off, and now, Flintheart Glomgold has his bumbling paws on Scrooge’s nephew.

_And he’s hurt._

  
“You will pay dearly for every drop of his blood that you spill, Glomgold,” Scrooge growls. He wonders how he could have missed Dewey during his earlier count as he slowly advances toward the edge of the cliff. “My nephews are my greatest treasures, and I place a high value on their safety.”

  
“Oh will I, Scroogey?” Glomgold laughs. His tone is manic with an edgy energy that alludes to something darker, deadlier. Glomgold is playing for keeps this time. Even Dewey seems to sense it - he stops struggling and goes absolutely still, wide brown eyes staring hopefully at Scrooge.

  
Then, all at once, Glomgold leaps to the edge of the cliff and thrusts Dewey over the chasm.

  
“No!” Scrooge’s mind seems to cloud. His feet are frozen to the stone floor.

  
Above him, Dewey gives a strangled scream as his feet dangle above fifty feet of empty space, and then, further down, the vortex of the whirlpool.

  
Time slows. Scrooge is uncertain whether the sudden thrumming in his ears is the rush of his own blood or the violent churning of the water below.

“So, here we are, then.” Glomgold gives Dewey a sharp shake and Dewey stiffens, terrified. “You’ll give me the sapphire because you want your little brat to survive.”

Scrooge notices movement behind him. Launchpad. Very slowly, without taking his eyes off his nephew, Scrooge reaches behind him and spreads his fingers wide in a desperate attempt to communicate ‘stop moving.’

“Easy, lad,” he murmurs from the corner of his mouth. “Hold steady now. We don’t want any trouble.”

  
“Excellent!” Glomgold smiles a saccharine smile, and Scrooge vaguely wonders how in the seven hells he could hear them speak over the roar of the water. The thought bursts as Glomgold’s eyes cut to Dewey, who is still suspended helplessly over the chasm. The smile sharpens, and Scrooge’s heart throbs.“We don’t want any trouble either, _do we, Dewey?”_ Glomgold shoots Dewey a flashy wink, as if they are sharing an inside joke. Then, the jovial moment is gone, replaced instantaneously by the snarl of a malicious, hardened criminal with nothing to lose. “So, Mr. McDuck, if you’d be so kind…” Glomgold extends his hand, the that is not dangling Dewey to his death. “I’ll be havin’ that jewel now.”

  
It takes everything in Scrooge not to fly into a Donald-esque rage. Instead, he takes a deep breath. Think. Think. Think. Scrooge closes his eyes and swallows his mounting panic, his pride and utter exasperation toward Dewey for running off again, his terror that he will be thrown of the cliff and drowned.

Angles.

  
He doesn’t have much to work with, Glomgold has him there. The Sapphire is valuable, sure, but when compared to Dewey’s life, there is no contest.  
Scrooge’s concern is the aftermath.

  
A week ago, he’d have tossed up the sapphire, no question. Glomgold is vindictive and petty but not murderous. Scrooge has never seen him plan to kill anybody but Scrooge himself, much less a child. This is a whole knew caliber of competition for Flintheart Glomgold, and it leaves Scrooge with a pit of dread burning in his chest. There’s no guarantee that Glomgold has any intent of releasing Dewey when he gets that jewel.

  
Which means that somehow, Scrooge is going to have to get Glomgold to release Dewey first.

  
“Time’s up, McDuck!” Flintheart’s roar echoes around the cavern, startling Scrooge out of his thoughts. Above, Dewey is once again being shaken over the edge of the cliff, like laundry left out to dry.

  
He looks very small, and very scared.

  
“My nephew’s are my greatest treasure,” Glomgold taunts, tightening his grip on Dewey’s collar. “The stone, now, Scrooge…”

  
Dewey gags and struggles against his bindings. Glomgold shakes him, hard. “Hold still, you insufferable imp!” Glomgold’s eyes narrow as he refocuses on Scrooge. “Unless, of course, I’m calling your bluff.”

  
Wide, terrified eyes find his. Dewey’s face is disbelief and thunder, and Scrooge is startled and ashamed to find that Dewey is crying.  
“No, lad,” Scrooge calls, reaching forward as if he can breach the impossible gulf between them with just his fingertips. “He’s wrong, that’s not what -”

  
But Dewey only closes his eyes.

  
He’s afraid of me, Scrooge realizes with a sickening rush of clarity.

  
With clarity comes shame, and before Scrooge can summon another thought, he’s shaking his cane at Glomgold. “Of course it is,” he bellows, angry to high heaven for even having hesitated at all.

  
With trembling fingers, Scrooge rips into the pocket of his greatcoat, coming away with the sapphire and flinging it to Glomgold with all the rage he can muster. “Here, ya great bleedin’ bawbag, have your blasted bauble!”

  
Dewey’s gaze meets his, shocked, but Scrooge’s relief is swamped by the slow dawn of horror as he realizes his mistake. Flinty’s no athlete, he remembers abruptly.

  
Terror grips his heart, and Scrooge forgets everything and _runs._

 

It unfolds slowly.

 

The sapphire arches toward the pit, glittering in the dim light.

 

Scrooge cannot stop it.

 

Glomgold’s gaze follows the jewel. His eyes are wide, greedy.

 

Oh, heavenly heather, please let me make it on time.

 

Flintheart Glomgold reaches for the sapphire with both hands.

 

No.

  
No, no, no, no!

  
“Dewey!”

  
Scrooge lands hard on his knees, shoving Glomgold to the side.

  
But it is too late.

  
Dewey is in the water.

 

* * *

  
It’s a long, long drop.

  
Dewey grits his teeth and curls into a ball to brace himself. Now that he’s actually falling, he’s not as scared anymore. He even has time to regret disobeying Uncle Scrooge’s brusque order to ‘stay exactly where I can see you.’

  
It’s almost a surprise when he reaches the water.

  
He crashes into it with a brutal slap, feet first, the sound sharp and jarring, like a gunshot. It echoes through his bones, the sickening crack of his impact, the noise and the pain reverberating through his body in indistinguishable waves of agony. He feels the sting of the water on his skin, the shearing twinge of connective tissues in his legs tearing, the deep crushing of his diaphragm as all the air is knocked from his lungs.

  
Dewey didn’t know that anything could hurt so bad.

  
He gasps, and the icy water welcomes him, drags him down and swallows him whole. Time stretches, and the cold seeps into him, between his feathers and onto skin and into his mouth until he is nearly numb with it, except for the deep ache in his chest.

  
Stunned from the impact, Dewey finds that he cannot move. The current pulls at him, contorts him, and he tumbles down. He opens his eyes, but there is nothing for him to see, just the swirling blackness of the water. He tries to orient himself, to straighten his body, but the current and the pain fight against him, and he cannot.  
He doesn’t even know where the surface is.

  
Panic seizes him. He can feel the burn in his lungs, knows he cannot hold his breath forever.

  
I’m a good swimmer, he reminds himself as he struggles hopelessly to find a sense of direction.

It’s absolutely impossible. Everything hurts, and there is no sound but the endless churn and thrum and roar of the water, no light to guide him to the surface.

  
I’m a good swimmer. I can’t drown! Dewey stretches, reaching, elongating his body, pulls with his shoulders and kicks, swimming as hard as he can. His legs will not cooperate. He thinks he will burst, his chest is on fire now. He releases the air in his lungs; it bubbles, ticking his face as it swirls and rises to the surface.  
Now he is just empty.

  
"Dude, you’re going to die,” a voice that sounds far too much like Louie points out.

  
“Yeah,” Huey chimes in grimly. “Statistically speaking, most deep-water drowning victims are boys aged ten to nineteen who are known to be proficient swimmers. That’s you, man.”

  
Dewey closes his eyes, and the voices fade.

  
I am going to die.

  
The knowledge seeps into him, and the panic fades. It is just another of Louie’s reality checks, another of Huey’s facts. Dewey is cold and numb and empty, and he is going to die here, cold and numb and empty.

  
He stops struggling and lets the water take him.

  
It is strangely peaceful.

 

* * *

  
Scrooge leans over the chasms with his hands on his knees and holds his breath.

  
Dewey has been under for 90 seconds now.

  
The cavern is silent save for the distant roar of the water. The others cannot see the surface from their position behind Scrooge, but they are all still and silent, watching, waiting.

  
“It the fall alone doesn’t kill him, the water will,” A voice like Donald points out.

  
Scrooge shakes his head hard and continues staring at the water.

  
100 seconds.

  
“Scrooge, nobody can swim through currents like those,” Della says sadly. Scrooge shudders and does not speak.

  
He isn't ready to hear her voice.

  
“We don’t even know where the river resurfaces,” she continues sadly.

  
Scrooge’s lungs burn, but he stubbornly refuses to take a breath. He does not allow himself to imagine what is happening to Dewey.

  
110 seconds. The fire in his lungs is nearly unbearable, but he holds on.

  
120.

  
At 128 seconds, Scrooge gasps roughly, falling to his knees as biology automatically takes over. The fire fades, and he sinks to the floor and settles on his knees, numb.


	2. Chapter 2

Louie’s squeezing his hand, hard.

Huey shrugs out of his brother’s vice grip, not understanding, not believing.

_Dewey just fell._

It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real. Huey’s feet are moving now. His insides feel hollow and disconnected, and the world around him is suddenly painfully sharp, the lights too bright, sounds too intense.

_Dewey fell._

Ahead of him, Uncle Scrooge crumples to the ground with his face in his hands. Huey ignores him, brushes past, running at full-tilt toward the cliff.

“Dewey, Dewey, Dewey,” someone is crying, over and over and over. 

_But Dewey fell._

He comes to a sudden stop just as the stone floor ends in a sheer drop. Heights have always made Huey a little queasy, but today, he doesn’t spare the danger a thought. Below him - far, far below him - the water churns angrily, swirling and thrashing in a violent whirlpool that reminds him a bit of the world’s largest toilet. Dewey would have thought that was funny, but…

_Dewey fell._

“Fuck,” Huey breathes. 

There’s no sign of his brother.

“No!” Huey squeaks as he’s jerked sharply backward. Startled, he whirls, but it’s only Uncle Scrooge yanking him from the edge of the cliff. Uncle Scrooge grips Huey’s shoulders tight enough to bruise, but Huey doesn’t notice, because Uncle Scrooge’s entire body is trembling, his eyes wide and wild and tinged with an edge of panic. “Come away from the edge, lad,” he grates.

“Ouch,” Huey responds automatically. Part of him knows that he should hurt, but he doesn’t. Instead of pain, his entire body feels numb, tingly.

Uncle Scrooge swallows hard. He seems to shrink a bit, and this time, he takes Huey by the hand and squeezes gently. “Now, Huey. Please.”

“But…” the protest dies in Huey’s throat. He can’t give voice to what he’s just witnessed.

_Dewey fell._

“Come.”

Huey allows himself to be led away, step by step.

* * *

Oh god.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Louie’s heart is beating out of his chest. The thrum of his pulse in his ears overcomes the angry roar of the water, and he’s hardly aware of Huey’s mad rush to the cliff’s edge. He’s got enough to grapple with as it is.

He’s just sent his brother to his death.

Louie doesn’t mince words, doesn’t play games, doesn’t bother with what-ifs and could-have-beens. Optimism only ends in disappointment, and happy endings just are for movies. He’s not an idiot.

Dewey just drowned, and it’s his fault.

He settles on the ground, arms folded over his knees, and rocks back and forth.

‘Murderer,’ his treacherous mind whispers.

“No.” He didn’t tell Dewey to sneak away while Uncle Scrooge was distracted, didn’t advocate for shenanigans and heroics, didn’t plan for Dewey to get into trouble.

‘But you did,’ he reminds himself.

It’s true. He’d noticed the signs - they were being followed - and he had let Dewey in on the secret. Louie knew that Dewey, once informed, would be compelled to take matters into his own hands. A mutually beneficial arrangement, he’d assumed. He owed Dewey for the laundry fiasco, and Louie always paid his debts, no matter how steep the costs. Dewey would have the time of his life single-handedly apprehending a contemptuous competitor, and Louie would be in the clear, at least for a while.

But now, Dewey is dead, and it’s Louie’s fault. What does that make him, then? Second-degree murderer? Manslaughter-er? The legal definition doesn’t matter. Louie’s just watched his brother drown, and he could have stopped it, should have prevented it.

‘I did this,’ he thinks, over and over.

I did this, I did this, I did this.

He’s hardly aware of the bustle around him. Uncle Scrooge shouting, Launchpad stumbling to comply. It doesn’t matter, really.

Dewey’s gone.

Dewey’s gone, and it’s my fault.

* * *

 

Scrooge is aware, suddenly, that he’s hurt Huey.

As soon as his oldest nephew is out of danger, safe at his side, Scrooge lets go, turning his face away in shame. He’s hurt them all. That’s all he does, really - destroy everything, everyone that he loves.

He barks an order to Launchpad, gathers his remaining nephews and returns to the Sunchaser. Contain resources, assess the damage.

As soon as they are back on board, Scrooge shoves Launchpad away from the control panel and reaches for the radio. Jahleel Island is remote and poorly prepared for a water recovery - there’s no coast guard, no resources, no rescue.

They didn’t pack the diving equipment for this trip. It’s laughable, really. Scrooge McDuck is the richest duck in the world, the ‘adventure capitalist’ with an entire fleet of submarines at his disposal, and now, when he most needs it, when his nephew’s life is on the line, he’s out of resources.

He sends Launchpad to the cargo bay anyway, if only to give him something to do.

He clenches his fists in his lap. It doesn’t stop them trembling. Loss is nothing new; he’s been here before, a decade ago, navigating his favorite niece - his pride and joy and life’s blood - through a cosmic storm.

But this is different. Dewey (and oh, Scrooge regrets teasing the boys about their names) isn’t Della. He’s more fragile, somehow, sensitive in a way that his mother wasn’t, desperate to make a mark, to prove himself worthy.

Della always knew she was worthy. She’d never doubted that.

But Dewey, Dewey felt that he had something to prove.

Scrooge replays those last moments over and over. Dewey’s face, dejected, disappointed, resigned as Glomgold had taunted him.

Scrooge’s breath catches at the implications. “Oh, lad,” he breathes, scrubbing his fingers into his eyes.

Dewey had fallen.

Drowned.

Died. 

Beaucase that’s the reality, Scrooge knows. Dewey is gone, just like his mother.

Drowning victims have sixty minutes at absolute most. The ‘golden hour,’ they call it. It’s ironic; Scrooge has spent at least that getting the kids to the Sunchaser, calling for help that he knew wasn’t coming, and it’s all for nothing. All the gold in the world can’t turn back the hands of time.

Dewey is gone, and there’s nothing that Scrooge can do about it.

* * *

Dewey is floating peacefully.

He is still vaguely aware of his body, can still feel the cold and the burn and the ache, but he’s somehow above it all, detached. He can feel his consciousness flickering, his brain blinking out, and he welcomes it.

Suddenly, something solid brushes his foot, and like the flipping of a switch, Dewey is alert. Adrenaline burns through his body, and Dewey kicks with all his might.

He surges forward, upward, swimming with all his strength, ignoring the screaming pain in his lungs and legs. It’s a desperate thing. There is only fire and pain and fierce determination. Dewey knows, instinctively, that this is it.

His last chance.

The water is calmer now, and he feels as though he is rushing upward, toward the surface. His head thumps something solid, and Dewey realizes that he is trapped beneath the rocky floor of the cave.

The panic threatens to consume him again, but he holds it back, reaching out with his arms. Rock on either side. He must be in an underwater tunnel.

He swims forward frantically. His muscles are burning, his lungs screaming. An eternity passes. There is only the blackness, only the swirling water and the sharp rock pressing down on each side of him. He knows instinctively that he cannot last much longer.

He thinks he can see a patch of light. '

Dewey makes for it, pushing desperately against the water. He shoots through a narrow crack in the ceiling of the tunnel. The horrible blackness fades, and now he is in open water, can see the sparkle of light as it reflects on the surface.

He reaches for the surface, kicking with all his might. His body burns, his lungs are on fire.

Finally, finally, his head breaks the surface, and, oh, he can breathe! Dewey floats on his back, panting, reveling in the sweet ache of the cold air as it rushes into his compressed lungs. Nothing has ever felt so good.

He lies like that, staring at the ceiling, unthinking, just breathing, floating in the center of a large, calm lake. He’s in another open chamber, though he it occurs to him that this one may be closer to the surface. Jagged cracks in the ceiling allow some light to filter through. The burn in his lungs and muscle begins to fade, and the pain of his injuries hits him.

He needs to get to the shore.

Dewey flops over and tries to swim, but the adrenaline is gone, and his left leg won’t cooperate. He pulls with his arms, slowly moving forward until his hands hit slick bank. He tries to stand, but a stabbing pain shoots up his leg and he falls over. He crawls, dragging himself out of the water, and collapses onto the bank.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued! In all, I expect five installments of Posthumous. 
> 
> Dewey’s drowning experience models my own. Obviously, I did not die, and thankfully didn’t fall from a 50 cliff, but I did have a very close call in a river one day. It’s an experience that still haunts me. 
> 
> I choose not to tag my fics because I refuse to spoil my own writing. I am aware of how many of you feel about this, so I wanted to address that now. I fully support you and wish you all to stay safe and happy. This will be a dark fic, pretty angsty, dealing with some heavy topics. You’ve been warned.
> 
> Suggestions, questions, and comments are open. Please, feel free to drop me a message, or some find me on Tumblr at Alliterative-Albatross. I am here to make friends!
> 
> Much love to you all, 
> 
> ~ Albatross


End file.
